The syringe sat in the center of the table like it was glowing.

Glass. Sterile.

Filled with something amber—thicker than water, more sacred than blood.

"It's a cure," he whispered.

He didn't meet my eyes.

He hadn't for days.

I stared at it.

The vial mocked me.

We'd lost friends for it.

Run through smoke and screaming for it.

Watched a child get torn apart at the checkpoint for it.

And now he tells me—now—that he's had it all along?

"You said it was gone," I said, my voice flat.

"You told me the lab was empty. You let me watch them die thinking there was no hope left."

I reached for the syringe.

He slapped my hand away. For a smoother reading experience, visit MV&LEMPYR.

"It's not ready."

His voice cracked.

"It's not tested. One dose. One chance. And—"

His words trailed off.

"And what?" I demanded. "You thought you should decide who gets it?"

His silence was the answer.

I stepped back, nausea and fury twisting in my gut.

He'd been a field medic.

One of the ones trying to save us when the government fell.

I loved him for that.

But now I saw the syringe was never just medicine.

It was power.

And he was afraid to lose it.

"You're infected," I whispered.

Not a question.

A revelation.

He turned away, but the way his fingers twitched, how his breath quickened—

I knew.

"You've been using suppressants," I continued. "Buying time. Keeping me close. Keeping this secret."

He didn't deny it.

Just said: "I didn't want to die before I said goodbye."

I wanted to scream.

Instead, I reached for the syringe again—slower this time.

He didn't stop me.

"It's your choice," he said, softly.

"Inject me… maybe it works. Maybe it doesn't.

Inject yourself… if I turn, you'll have to put me down."

His eyes finally met mine.

"And if you waste it on someone like me, we'll never know if it could've saved someone better."

I held it in my hand.

So light.

So deadly.

The storm outside howled.

Lightning flashed over the shattered windows.

Inside, there was only us—two ghosts orbiting a miracle.

I didn't inject him.

Not yet.

Not then.

Instead, I set it back on the table and sat beside him.

We said nothing.

Because some secrets need silence to settle in the soul.

That night, he slept on my shoulder, shivering like the fever was already winning.

I held him tighter.

Not because I forgave him.

Not because I knew what I'd do.

But because no one deserves to die without being held.

And in the morning, if he was still breathing—

then I'd decide.